Secrets in Summer(104)

Darcy had had a long serious talk with herself, and she had to admit, when it came right down to it, she wanted to live on this island with its eccentric population and quirky calendar for the rest of her life. Well, probably for the rest of her life. She was only thirty; she couldn’t predict how she’d feel in twenty years. Much of her desire to remain here was because she was living in her grandmother’s house. She made herself face that fact and all it said about her personality, her deepest needs. She admitted to herself that it was hard for her to feel safe, at home, tethered, because for the first ten years of her life she’d had to shuffle from house to house according to the whims of her delightful mother, the Queen of the Whiplash Life. So Darcy was wounded, so she was off-kilter—so what? Who wasn’t, one way or another?

The thing was—and her soul swelled as she thought of him—she now understood that Nash was the love of her life. With him, she felt safe, more than safe: She felt strong, new, capable, ready for whatever life threw their way. She needed to tell him this. She was going to speak to Nash tonight—she wouldn’t flirt or grovel or beg—she was going to speak to him calmly. She wouldn’t attempt to talk all this through with him; she didn’t even know what she was proposing, except getting back together, maybe living together to see how that went—she knew exactly the space for Nash’s books in her grandmother’s library.

She had to move now, into reality! She couldn’t sit here nervously planning this evening and the next and the next. She had to, as everyone said, be here now. So she put her car into drive and headed for Melody’s house.

Rick and Melody’s house, just off a bumpy dirt road off Surfside Road, was the opposite of Darcy’s. Modern, sleek, boxy, it was an upside-down house, with the bedrooms on the ground floor and the living rooms on the second floor. Second-floor decks of silky smooth pine boards extended across the ocean side of the house, providing fantastic views. Outdoor furniture and huge pots of flowers turned the deck into another room, and as Darcy parked her car and walked up to the house, Jordan and Melody waved at her from the deck.

Jordan called something down to Darcy—it sounded like “I have to talk to you!” but that couldn’t be right. Darcy would be in the house in a minute and she’d talk to Jordan right away. She always did. Well, she always had, before she was with Nash.

It had taken some courage to enter a party by herself. Jordan had always been her go-to person, the face Darcy would look for in a crowd, a momentary anchor. Now that Darcy knew the gang, she didn’t have to make a beeline for Jordan, but she planned to do that anyway. While she and Jordan were chatting, Darcy could casually search out Nash.

His red pickup was parked down the road. So she knew he was here.

The Holdgates were arriving now, so Darcy entered the house and went up the wide spiral stairs chatting to Tina Holdgate about how fast the summer had gone.

“You must have had a fab summer,” Tina told Darcy. “Girl, you look awesome!”

“Thanks,” Darcy said. The compliment was exactly what she needed. She knew it made her cheeks glow. She’d never felt prettier than now, and she knew she was turning a few heads as she made her way through the crowd toward the deck and Jordan.

“Martini? Cosmo?” A waitress held a tray of drinks for Darcy to choose from.

“For now, just sparkling water,” Darcy said, lifting a tumbler of ice and water. She wanted to be sober when she approached Nash. She was already high on nerves and hope.

“Hi, Jordan,” she called, waving as she did a sideways squeeze between a cluster of guys replaying the recent Red Sox game.

Jordan returned a wave that seemed more like a stop sign. Jordan was frowning, no—not frowning as such, more like her face was squeezing up like she’d just sucked a lemon. Darcy hoped Kiks was all right as she slid past a woman resting against the door jamb, a tall man leaning down to speak to her….

She couldn’t breathe. Her knees buckled.

The woman in a formfitting slip of black silk, her blond hair shimmying against her shoulders, her pretty young face radiant, was Kate Ferguson. She’d been in the women’s chorus with Darcy. She was a nurse. She was nice.

She was beaming up at Nash, who had his hand resting on the doorjamb as he talked to her, leaning toward her, clearly taking possession, marking his territory.

Darcy stumbled. A man—she couldn’t think of his name, she knew him, he was somebody’s husband—caught her arm and kept her from falling.

“No more gin for you,” he joked.

“Right,” Darcy agreed, not bothering to hold up her glass of water. She was nauseous. She was cold. Her fingertips and lips felt icy. She was filled with an enormous scream that pushed against her throat, her lungs, her belly….